


in darkness, lies

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Mental Instability, possessive Mairon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4652094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of loneliness, remembering what may have been, what may have not. Of flames in the darkness and of pain. Eyes of liquid gold bring back what was lost, greedy, obsessed,<br/>beloved.<br/>All that once was is meaningless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in darkness, lies

There, there, in the dark, he can _see_ movement and it creeps closer, it approaches; his eyes hurt as he watches the flames that grow in the darkness, that conquer it and devour, devour. He strains his arms bound with an unbreakable chain above his head, he wills his unresponsive body to back away – in vain, in vain, his stiff limbs do not obey. A fear uncoils within his guts – will he burn, will he perish in the dark of his prison, reduced to nothing but ash and a memory; will anyone hear him scream in pain or will the flames consume him before a single sound escapes his dry lips – and he almost flinches when a tan hand is extended in his direction from the faceless dark, and he almost begs-

'What have they done to you,' a whisper reaches his ears, gentle, wistful, _familiar;_ and a touch to his cheek is

hot

painful

_welcome_

he remembers when nobody would dare touch him, he remembers when all cowered under his gaze, but it is not a memory: it is a dream, a dream of a world that had never been, a nightmare; and he shakes his head to clear away the fog surrounding his mind and surely, he is alone, there is no fire, there is _nothing in the Void but death_ -

'Look at me, my Lord,' the whisper returns, urgent fingers of fire cup his chin and force him to lift his head, eyes made of molten gold and flames stare at him from inside the darkness; he wants to shrink away, he wants to, he, the fear grows within him, _everybody is your enemy_ , **why would you not let me die!**

But the eyes, the eyes are something he knows, the adoration and awe in them, and he thinks this may be a memory, or a memory of a dream; he dreams, sometimes, trapped in this place with his limbs deformed from being chained for all eternity and with his eyes veiled by the absolute darkness where no light ever ventures

_good, good, who needs light anyway_

and the dreams are beautiful: a dancing spirit made of fire and of flesh and of bone and of all that his senses could perceive. A laugh. A sigh. A touch. A warmth. And once he awakens, he knows those are naught but dreams for he is numb to anything but pain and his whole body hurts and his mind is trapped in the darkness that should feel comfortable, that should feel natural, but does not, and he desires nothing more but to weep, yet even that he cannot have: even the mercy of tears was taken from him long ago.

There is more movement which he can see but does not register, as though his eyes no longer have any connection with his mind, as though cognition was stolen from him the same way everything else had been, before; and a single moment later, or a single eternity later, the chain keeping him upright comes undone, melted away by a flame hotter than the light of the Trees, or the fire of the Sun: and he falls forward, unable to balance himself on broken legs, and arms emerge from the darkness and hold him, hold him so close. Helpless, he shivers, tremors of pain, exhaustion, _fear_ come down his protruding spine as he draws no comfort from the embrace and as he forces his mind to recognize the touch as soothing instead of malicious in intent.

_It is a lie._

'I am so sorry,' says the whisper in his ear, and he knows whispers, he has heard many: mocking him, throwing insults and reminding him that he means nothing, that he is nothing now, that what he used to be is but a wisp of smoke and a drawing on the surface of water which fades away, fades away so rapidly. Yet this whisper does not mock, this whisper does not aim to punish and hurt, and even though it is not genuine – nobody is sorry for him, nobody _should be_ – even though it surely is a lie as well, or a dream, or both: he allows himself to fade into it, to sink into the soft caress of the voice in his ear as though it were a blanket of warmth to rid him of the terrible cold that encompasses him whole.

Finally, finally, he will perish: consumed by a flame in the darkest depths of the prison that has been made just so that he would be punished.

'O, Melkor,' the whisper says and it sounds almost like a name. 'My Lord,' it repeats and he realizes that the sound used to be a name, _his name_ , the name given to him and then stolen away, like all that he was, all that he is, all that he will ever be: broken and damaged and ripped apart and trapped. There is nothing, nothing to him anymore, nothing to hold on to. He is empty. Like the Void. Ah. Ah!

He _is_ the Void!

And in the arms made of fire and flesh, finally, he weeps.

 

Awakening is an involuntary impulse which he cannot defeat in battle. He awakens, therefore, and for a long while, he knows not where he is, what he is, he knows not if anything is real. But his eyes are open and he can see: a ceiling of grey stone above him, in a spectrum of shades and hues, and this is new: where before there was only darkness, darkness and emptiness, now his vision fills with objects that he vaguely recognizes or does not recognize at all. He sees the furs underneath him, he sees the pillows he is laid upon, he sees himself even, his body, his limbs weirdly untwisted, as though given freedom of movement, but thin and sickly and he turns away his head in disgust. Yet he feels... nothing. He has no sensation where once was pain, as though he stopped existing. That cannot be; it cannot. And yet... What if? What if this is release, the final turn, the end to both his punishment and to his being, what if-

'Master, finally you awaken,' says the whisper in the dark, and it is back by his side, and it was not a dream.

 _Master_ . It called him _Master_. For a wretched prisoner as himself to be called such is surely blasphemy. He wishes to say so, he wishes to protest, but he cannot, because as soon as he tries, the pain returns and he feels his whole body go rigid in fear.

'Please do not attempt to speak yet,' says the whisper gently, and the fear is subsiding, as though kept down in the darkest recesses of his mind by the sound of fire so close to him. 'You are healing very slowly. It will take quite some time before your vocal cords are reformed,' the whisper continues and it is less like a whisper now and more like a voice: soft, velvety, at once bitter and sweet, somehow smooth: somehow physical. Like a gentle caress against his ear, the voice envelopes him in a net of false security and he has no will to struggle. If this is another torture, he will endure it. He has no choice. He cannot break.

He is already a wreck. There is nothing left in him to be broken.

The voice is not disembodied as the whisper had been: it belongs to a creature that appears as though made of fire and earth and sparks of a forge; lean and strong, and tan and beautiful – the spirit of flames from the dreams stands now before him, naked and real, and so he knows it is just another dream.

He closes his eyes, wishing to never open them again; the illusion of freedom and death shatters around him when the darkness invades the world under his eyelids. But it is chased away when again, the voice speaks, soft, so soft, almost kind

(why would anyone show him kindness?)

and so soft,

'I had to make a trade for you,' it tells him, sad and regretful, 'I had to prostrate myself to make a plea for you. Oh, my Lord, had I known you to be in such a state in their clutches, I would have come sooner; I would have gathered armies and broken them down on the gateways of their accursed land! Had I known, I would have come to your aid.'

The creature touches him, removes a stray strand of hair from his face – but he does not feel a thing. All sensation is lost to him, the flesh he is trapped in detects nothing. In a way, this is a relief, for where before was pain, now there is numbness. Yet it is also horrifying and he wants to curl into something small and meaningless and hide away from the prying fingers, away from the eyes of molten gold that watch him with emotions he cannot understand.

'Oh!' The voice exclaims. The creature shakes its head, which possesses a set of facial features too ethereally beautiful to be anything but imagination. Flames surround its face. He feels like he knows it. Knows this stranger. He cannot. If a past existed, maybe he used to know the creature in that past. But the past is gone. He is gone. He is nothing now.

'My Lord,' the voice says, a hand grasps his hand, and still he does not experience anything but a confusing lack of sensation. The creature speaks, 'My Lord, some of your senses have been dulled or completely blocked for while you are healing. It is to spare you the pain,' it explains. It sounds completely false but may just be the truth; what should it matter when all there exists are the words spoken in a chamber filled with unfamiliar things and words registered in a mind filled with unfamiliar worlds?

So he accepts it and sleeps, or awakens, maybe, because there is only darkness under his eyelids.

 

His next awakening brings another change, for the veil around his sensations is lifted and he hurts, yes, but he also feels the slightly rough, yet strangely soft furs he lays upon as the thick hairs rub against his pallid skin, or the movement of the chilly air, or the way his heart beats regularly inside his ribcage as though it were alive. He tries to lift his hand and at first, his fingers twitch before, yes, his limb follows the command from his brain and he raises the left hand, brings it closer to his face, examines it; and he both recognizes and does not remember why the fingers of this hand are blackened and charred.

Some wounds never heal. Some wounds are carried forever as punishment for the most terrible of sins.

 _What is a sin, if not a transgression against a moral norm set by one who is in power to rule over lesser beings?_ A familiar voice asks in his mind, deep and smooth and wise and full of authority. He cannot place it. He knows not whether it is a recollection of what used to be or a figment of his imagination. Everything which surrounds him is new and old at the same time, simultaneously recognizable and foreign; he is out of place in this reality full of nothing that makes sense.

'Master,' the creature greets him, once again coming to his side. It has a lean male form, its warm brown skin is covered with fiery freckles which match its – his – flaming hair; and the eyes that stare reverently at him from under thick eyelashes are black and gold and red – haunting – perfect.

'Please do not speak,' the creature says, smiles at him. The smile is lovely. He wants to rip it off the creature's face. How dare it look upon him with such familiarity. How dare it treat him with pity and care. _**How dare it!** _

'Your body is mending, my Lord. I have found a healer who was able to set your bones. Most of the damage has already faded. Many wounds, however, will take longer,' it continues to speak, its voice flowing against his ears like smooth music, calming on his nerves. 'Your vocal cords have been shredded. They need more time. The, ah, the old wounds and scars will likely return, although I was promised they would not be painful. _They_ just want it to be a remainder,' it finishes bitterly.

He remembers, suddenly, a moment stranded in time: frost-blue bright eyes full of cold disdain, voice thick with anger, piercing words armed with hatred. Unblemished white skin, blood on snow. Fire in the dark. _  
_ What does it take to end a life?

Not much, not much at all - a little pressure here, a small push there, a sharp object and a precise move: and there, there it goes, seeping away, drained, bled out into the dirt, meaningless. How can something so precious be this meaningless, how can something so important be so insignificant in the end? What does it take to end a life, after all, if not a single blink of an eye and a simple _will to do so_ ; and what does it mean to end a life but an ultimate power? So then, is it precious or rather not, life, that elusive, abstract drop of sentience: and if not, then why seek to end it at all?

 _There is no life in the Void, in the coldness. In the darkness, only death.  
_ Only death. Only death. Only death, death, deathdeathdeath _deathdeath death de-_

'My Lord?' The creature whispers and the room around him is different than before: emptier somehow, but lighter, and he realizes that either this is a dream or before was.

He lifts a pale hand and examines it as though to verify if it looks real. It does not; something is missing. Fingers, nails, knuckles, they are all there, making the hand look complete, but he knows something vital should be there that is not. Where is it? It almost feels like a part of him is missing, as though, as though taken away, buried, hidden from his sight: and he wants it back but does not know how to start looking for it because nothing about him is whole.

Shattered, shattered like a shard of ice dropped carelessly from a height. Millions of pieces which make not a whole person nor a whole anything.

'I will nurse you back to full health, my Lord,' says the creature, oblivious to his confusion, to the damage he has taken to his soul. Full health? What does it mean, when he knows not the shape his flesh should take or the tone his voice would have; he has no hope to regain a fraction of what he used to be, whatever he used to be, and so the declaration is naught but a ridiculous desire of someone who understands nothing.

He is left alone then, alone in the place he is slowly learning to recognize as a more or less constant factor in his existence. The grey stone ceiling above and the grey thick fur below him are like twin anchors, reminding him that this, now, is reality and the impenetrable dark of the past is no more. He chooses to believe it for now, even if he is too terrified to close his eyes in case the darkness beneath his eyelids pulls him back inside that prison of inescapable blackness. He remains on the soft bed, unmoving, exhausted, unable to fall unconscious into the world of dreams. Maybe unwilling. He knows what he would see:

Flashes of conversations and events he cannot comprehend. Faces from a time he cannot remember. Words, jumbled together into chaos. Memories or insane dreams of someone who had been trapped in a dark prison for far too long.

A spirit with eyes of molten gold dancing amidst a flurry of flames. Sensual limbs moving through the fire, a glowing sheen of sweat on the tan skin. Glistening, plump lips parted in a silent sigh. Naked flesh adorned with thousands of freckles, as though bejewelled.

Beautiful.

 

He awakens and fights down the feeling of betrayal; yet he begrudges the flesh his soul inhabits of the hours stolen while sleep claimed him. He is no more rested than before, no less exhausted, and so he is unable to justify the time lost to the dreamless abyss. His limbs are numb. He tries to move them, nigh panics when he cannot, and the air is suddenly stifling: he is unable to breathe, he is drowning, he-

'My Lord,' the voice calls out and the creature, his creature, is immediately by his side; its hands are on his face, calming him, touching him, its face is in front of him and he tries to find peace in counting the freckles, and finally he breathes out when he realizes he is clutching the creature's forearms to keep it close.

He can move his arms. He is not trapped.

'My Lord, you are safe now. You are safe here. I am watching over you,' the creature says softly. He can feel its weight all over himself as he beholds the lean, tan body draped across the sheets; and he dislikes the sensation. Something feels wrong. Too helpless. Too vulnerable. He cannot produce a single sound when the creature leans down to press its soft lips against his dry ones; when the creature moves its hands down his throat, collarbones, to his chest. He pushes against it. The only thing he accomplishes is the tightening of the creature's grasp – and its clawed hands leave marks on him, marks he does not want.

Then, all of a sudden, it lets go.

'Please forgive me,' it says, humble and soft. It backs away, watching him, uncertain how to proceed. It shakes its head and the fiery mane of its hair dances around its face as though alive; like a wild spirit of fire, the creature looks ready to flee and he, he does not, he wishes it to stay. He lifts his arm, holds it out, motions for the creature to return to his side – and it does, and he revels in its closeness even if he does not understand why he desires it so.

It does not touch him, however, and for that he is glad.

'Sleep now, my Lord,' the creature whispers when his eyes shut closed of its own volition and he wills them back open. 'Sleep, and I will guard your dreams.'

So promised, he allows the trap which is lumber to close around him again. He dreams of burning.

 

Whoever the person he used to be was, he does not remember. What he remembers is the absolute darkness and the shards of images: alluring eyes of molten gold which he now associates easily with the creature by his side; pale face and sharp cheekbones, and a gaze so blue and bright and piercing, and a feeling of – something – connected to that gaze; a mouth like a mirror reflection of his own, but shaped into a smile he could not imagine himself capable of. A crown embedded with jewels of pain and chaos and regret. A name at the tip of his tongue. Something distant. Something lost.

'Mairon,' is the first word that falls out of his mouth, strained, hoarse. His tongue rolls uncomfortably long on the consonants, stretching them into a barely recognizable word which barely even sounds like he intended to; and yet, the creature looks upon him with such awe and admiration as it had not looked at him before.

'Such is my name, my Lord,' it says. He. He says. Mairon. His name is Mairon. It is a name, a name he can almost recognize, a name he almost knows, and. It is a start. He may yet remember. What he is, who, why – all of it – the history – he may yet remember, because _Mairon_.

'Mairon,' he whispers, unable to raise his voice. Even this hurts in a raw, unfamiliar fashion, even this mere whisper carried on a single breath.

'You gave it to me,' Mairon says.

The eyes of molten gold are full of some sort of emotion that he cannot comprehend. They stare right at him and he wants them on him, he wants _something_ , but he does not understand.

'My name,' Mairon says, reaches out, touches his face with his long-fingered, clawed hand. 'My name, you – when I was naught but a confused spirit – you gave me my name. You gave me purpose, my Lord. You showed me my potential and else the potential of the World to be shaped as your will commands. It all started when you gifted me with that name.'

'Mine,' he says, and the word anchors him in reality. He uses his own hand to grasp at Mairon's wrist, to hold his hand close against his face. Experimentally, he nuzzles his cheek into Mairon's warm palm and he enjoys the soft sigh he is rewarded with.

But this simple moment cannot last, because he is no more than a shadow of what he used to be.

'Go away,' he whispers.

Mairon is reluctant to leave – but eventually, if unwillingly, he obeys.

The loneliness is worse than the abundance of greedy love.

 

There is nothing he can be certain of, no reality to contend against the vague memories or visions or dreams from a time which might or might not have existed. Instead of trying, he focuses on what he is able to experience. The individual hairs of the fur beneath his still too heavy body. The trembling of muscle in his arms after he tries too hard to force himself to move. The exhaustion of the physical kind, unfamiliar to him and unwelcome. The sensation of, of almost pleasure-like pain when Mairon's too hot skin brushes against his own.

_Cold cold cold. Darkness and coldness, and nothing in between. Empty. Bereft. Like him._

'You once told me I could be anything,' Mairon tells him, smiles, but does not touch; the difference of behaviour is something to ponder on, maybe, if he does not forget about it. He forgets easily. He is like a wanderer lost in a land of wisps and fires, and his way is obscured by smoke. That land is his mind. That smoke is, he does not know. Something. Dark.

'At my Lord's command, I was ready to throw away what I am in order to become what my Lord would wish me to be,' Mairon goes on. Pauses. Plays with a ring on one of his long fingers.

'Yet for long, I was simply Mairon, because such was the will of my Lord,' says Mairon after a moment and shakes his head. The flames which engulf his hair like a living fire – wild and insane and chaotic like something from a long-forgotten past – move as though enchanted. The sight catches attention. Captures breaths. Captivates.

How easy it is to admire Mairon as a thing of beauty. How easy to disregard him as a being and see him as nothing more than a mere object.

'You do not listen,' Mairon accuses and is correct. He knows he is: his lips twitch into a smile of mirth and his eyes full of liquid gold twinkle with light-hearted amusement, and there is no hilarity in not listening to him, but still Mairon is... cheered? Happy?

'I do not listen,' he admits easily.

His voice is different now, less hoarse, more substantial. Deeper. Something. No longer raw, no longer primal as though made out of tissue and organic matter. Whole, complete, the most finished part of himself. Mairon enjoys listening to him speak, even when the words he says are meaningless. Most of them are, but he continues to talk, if only to please Mairon and keep the fire spirit from leaving; sometimes, sometimes he wishes to be alone, but as soon as that desire is granted, the darkness returns, blinding him, stifling him, suffocating, and he cannot: so he seduces Mairon to stay by his side always, at all times, using naught but the words that clutter his mind.

Words he remembers in a voice which sound like his own, but which cannot belong to him.

'I desire to paint an intricate pattern in blood on my Lord's pure white body,' Mairon says dreamily, softly, with a strange kind of gleam in his eyes which is easily associated with those times when he pushes for physical proximity. The urges of the flesh are something foreign, something dreadful, yet the thought of Mairon wanting him like that is not altogether repulsive.

'Why blood?' He asks, resting against the relative comfort of the furs and the headboard of his bed. Something feels wrong. Something about himself, about his body. He cannot tell what it is, but it is like an itch deep inside his head, an itch that will not be scratched.

'The red tint of blood suits you,' replies Mairon, carefree and breathless. His entire being burns with some emotion that he bothers not mask, obvious and yet incomprehensible like all things that come with being him. He is a fire in the dark, but he offers not light and warmth and safety; he is but a shadow, one more amongst the hundreds which haunt his dreams, oh, Mairon is the Lieutenant of Shadows: the one to rule them all.

'This is not real,' comes the sudden realization, and it makes such perfect sense, more so than anything, more so than he wants it to, just more. He shakes his head, dizzy, tries to clear his thoughts, sees the look Mairon is giving him and the smile, patient, not unkind, and he sleeps.

 

His name, he almost, almost remembers. A title, meaningless, of an enemy to something, to someone, and that used to be him: an enemy for the purpose of being hated, of hating. That is the feeling which wells up beneath the surface of his fragile sanity: hatred, of himself, of the world, of the grey walls and the grey ceiling and the grey furs beneath him and the vibrant red and orange and yellow of the fire which Mairon brings into his grey existence.

Something is still missing.

'Does it really matter,' Mairon speaks to him upon his awakening, 'if this is real or false? Is it so much worse than what was before?'

And he wants to say yes, this is a nightmare, nothing more, but he cannot: because he wants to believe this is reality and not another half-forgotten vision trapped in the coldness, in the darkness which cannot be pierced. Softly, softly, he wishes Mairon sang to him. In a voice of gentle lies, bitter-sweet and roughly smooth; maybe that way, memories would return. Better yet, maybe they would disappear entirely, leave him in a state of semi-consciousness in which he would remain for an eternity, lost and content.

Yes, his name. Melkor. Melkor, one possessed of might, one who in might arises; and also his name, Morgoth. Enemy. One who is enemy to all that lives and dies. One who hates the world and by the world is be-hated. And yet, the names mean nothing for all the past weight they carry.

Mairon burns bright in the dreamy vision that is like conjured by fever. His eyes are aflame and his soul is blazing with the mightiest fires, and for him, Mairon will burn down the entire world. At once, memories of a thousand years and more come back one after another, each one more like a dream than the last; and they are images come with names now, with tones in a tongue long-lost and recovered. All of them mean everything. All of them mean nothing.

'I wanted to give you an illusion of something,' Mairon – the creature that is Mairon – the vision that looks like Mairon – the memory, tells him. The grey chamber is distorted, it always has been, the walls are translucent and there is nothing beyond, only blackness. Only death.

'You are but a dream,' Melkor says, shaking his head. No; he cannot move, cannot shake his head like he cannot lift a limb: trapped in an endless torture, chained to _nothing_ , he is a prisoner as much as he had always been. Not always. But long enough. And he will be.

'Yes,' Mairon admits. 'I am but your dream,' he sighs. 'I wanted to make you happy.'

'He made me happy,' Melkor tells the vision which is only in his head, 'and as a reward, I twisted him into a perverted image of myself. Was such his potential?'

'It is the potential of all beings to outgrow their own potential,' the memory of Mairon tells him. A smile, freely given. A non-existent caress.

'I loved you when you were innocent,' Melkor sighs.

A snowy mountaintop, in a land which exists no longer in any reality. A warm-skinned Maia, barely used to his form, not yet possessed of a name of his own. A discovery of transformation: wonder, such wonder on the face which has not seen grief, which has not yet been tainted.

 _Beautiful_ , Melkor said and beheld the form of the one who would follow him to the end of the world and further, and admired the infinite potential he saw.

'I was never that,' says the memory of Mairon, or does not, because it is gone.

The chains binding his limbs are oppressive but welcome. The pitch black, empty world is a comfort. Pain – is familiar. It is better like this. It is better to give in. Like this, he will not miss what no longer can be reached. Like this, he will cease to exist. Maybe. Someday. Let there be nothing but the darkness. It is what has always been...

 

And then, there, there, in the dark, he can _see_ movement and it creeps closer, it approaches; his eyes hurt as he watches the flames that grow in the darkness, that conquer it and devour, devour. He strains his arms bound with an unbreakable chain above his head, he wills his unresponsive body to back away – in vain, in vain, his stiff limbs do not obey. A fear uncoils within his guts – will he burn, will he perish in the dark of his prison, reduced to nothing but ash and a memory; will anyone hear him scream in pain or will the flames consume him before a single sound escapes his dry lips – and he almost flinches when a tan hand is extended in his direction from the faceless dark, and he almost begs-

'What have they done to you,' a whisper reaches his ears, gentle, wistful, _familiar;_ and a touch to his cheek is

hot

painful

_welcome_

he remembers when nobody would dare touch him, he remembers when all cowered under his gaze, but it is not a memory: it is a dream, a dream of a world that had never been, a nightmare; and he shakes his head to clear away the fog surrounding his mind and surely, he is alone, there is no fire, there is _nothing in the Void but death_ -

And the circle will never break.

 

**Author's Note:**

> so to be honest this is still the same world as "metamorphosis" and "shatter" because. i have these elaborate stories about these two which i have to write but cannot put in one big fic because i can't concentrate long enough to write it as one. also they totally make sense separately.
> 
> there will be more once i finish them. yes. i am fighting with myself to finish all fics i have started. that's why the angbang spam. they are closest to being finished.


End file.
